


Table for Two

by trash_bat



Category: British Comedy RPF, Just Puddings (Web Series), Off Menu with Ed Gamble and James Acaster (Podcast)
Genre: Dessert & Sweets, Dominance and Submission, Eating, Feelings, Food Porn, Idiots in Love, James Acaster Is a Good Boy, M/M, Restaurants, Sex, Wine Bore Ed Gamble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-23 05:40:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20887028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_bat/pseuds/trash_bat
Summary: Ed’s own fork darts in to stab at what's left. James watches as it travels from plate to mouth, the way he chews his food properly, taking the time to enjoy it. James picks up his water glass again to give himself something to do. Suddenly he’s awkward, panicked. Is it too late to back out, settle up for their cocktails, get a takeaway on the way home? Why do they have to be here, in public, when Ed’s giving him a look so intense you could sear a steak on it?Ed treats James to dinner at Kerridge's.





	Table for Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wreathed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/gifts).

James had only gone to the freezer to get more ice cubes. That had been the plan. The plan, originally. Been hitting the water hard, has James, since they’re heading to dinner. It's a whole thing. Ed’s been studying the wine list, asking questions down the wine shop, and James expects it to be a two, possibly three-bottle evening. Night, actually, because their table was booked for far later than he generally liked. That made it even more crucial that he’d have drunk enough water before they arrived. It was tough keeping pace with Ed. 

He’s adding ice cubes mostly in order to have something to chew on once the glass is emptied because he's famished. A late afternoon meeting where there weren’t any snacks to hand other than whole pieces of fruit? Too complicated. With an orange you’d end up all sticky; an apple was too noisy, impossible to chew politely. And a banana? James can hardly bring himself to eat a whole banana in front of Ed, let alone his agent and a casting director on Skype from Los Angeles, where it must have been appallingly early. No one wanted to see that first thing in the morning.

Ed had met him outside the office, incongruous in tight-fitting bike shorts and a navy peacoat that looked suspiciously like his own. His stomach did a somersault when Ed looked up from his phone, which made it easy to momentarily forget that he was absolutely starving.

“Is that mine?” he'd asked as they turned towards Oxford Street.

“Yeah, sorry” Ed answered lightly, taking him by the elbow. “Must have grabbed the wrong one on my way out.” He looked out for oncoming traffic and then over at him. “Don’t mind, do you?”

James’d mumbled that it was fine, which it was, except it made him feel weird in a nice way, and why bring that up? It wasn’t important. They’d carried on walking.

“I’m thinking one of us should order à la carte,” Ed said out of nowhere, like he’d been contemplating it for a while and has only now thought to mention it. “There’s a pork belly I want you to see.” He’d taken out his phone again and steered them until they were out the way of the foot traffic.

“Hang on.” Ed scrolled through his likes to show James a picture of said pork belly.

“Is that crackling?” James asked over the gurgle in his stomach. Could they pop by Nando’s? Probably he'd left it too late to ask. 

Ed smiled at him, tight-lipped but sincere and slipped the phone back in the pocket of his — no, _his_ — coat. “It is. Not on the set menu for dinner, though naturally it’s on the pre-theatre one.”

“You doing that?” James asked, as they stepped back into the foot traffic.

“Probably," Ed said. "You'll be wanting to pick your dessert." 

“Long as it’s not a cheese plate,” James retorted, mostly to see Ed’s eyes crinkle up when he laughed. Ed wouldn’t make him get a cheese plate, though he would tease him about it. That was all right. He liked it when Ed teased him. “Even just talking about it is making me hungry, Ed.”

“I know,” Ed agreed, missing the hint. By now they’d already arrived at the station and he'd yet to get any food. Maybe he could get a Dr. Pepper for the walk home, packet of crisps. He'll ask when they're closer to the flat. 

Only by that time Ed had suggested they have a snack, to which James readily agreed, and home they went. He would have been happier with more than the small portion of pecans that Ed doled out like they were a precious commodity. He gave James a whole handful, more than he served himself, but all those did were to sharpen his hunger from being blunt into something acute, verging on painful. 

He managed to scrounge a single serving of fruit leather, found in the pocket of his burgundy cords, which he didn’t remember putting there but must have when he was last in the vicinity of a Trader Joe’s. Hardly enough to make a meal. There's a pang in his stomach as he rummages in the ice tray, trying to see any whole cubes are left before he resorts to nicking one of Ed’s special spherical ones, when all at once he remembers what else is in the freezer. 

_Ice cream._ Pints, sure, but also something more novel than that: ice cream sandwiches. Homemade, if you could believe it. Sure, they were little more than shop-bought bourbon biscuits which Ed had painstakingly prised apart with a butter knife, spread with caramel ice cream and dusted with flakes of sea salt, each completed mini-sandwich wrapped in clingfilm, stacked neatly in a leftover patisserie box, yesterday’s date scrawled on the cardboard.

He’ll have one. Just one. He’s already wrestling the box free from where it’s been stashed, behind his Ben & Jerry’s and Ed’s family-sized bags of frozen cauliflower. That’ll do him. Little sugar, herbal tea — maybe some sugar, actually, in that as well, and before he knows it they’ll be out the door. No problem.

A moment later, Ed comes through, absently asking James if the kettle’s still hot, and finds him stood in front of the opened freezer, several pieces of wadded-up clingfilm in one hand, shoving the end of mini-sandwich number...seven?...into his already full mouth.

He pulls himself up short, noting the box that James is holding against his body with his forearm, the way you might hold up a recalcitrant cat while trying to trim its toenails, taking in the no-doubt guilty expression on his face as he’s literally caught out red-handed.

“What on earth?” Ed sounds surprised.

He shoves the last bit of sandwich into his mouth, bends the biscuit in his haste, thus losing a chunk of it onto the floor. Hastily he closes the box and shoves it back where it came from, behind the peas and vacuum-sealed chicken breasts. In the process, he manages to upset the ice tray and send some of that clattering to the floor as well. 

“Just getting some ice,” he lies, scooping up the mess. He chucks the uneaten bit of ice cream sandwich, more for show than anything else. Had Ed not been there, well, he'd almost certainly have eaten it. 

Ed looks disappointed; whether that’s because James has got crumbs all down the front of his jumper, or because he’d not actually managed to put any ice cubes in his now-emptied water glass before tucking in, and it is now sitting on the counter as clear evidence of his lie, is hard to figure. 

“Oh, James,” Ed says and immediately he’s flooded with guilt. God, how awful is he? Terrible. Absolutely terrible. They’re meant to be going out in a minute. Meanwhile here he is, stuffing his face with sugar like it’s nothing, and now he's made poor Ed complicit in it to boot. Ed doesn’t let himself indulge all that often: loads of lean protein, plain Greek yoghurt, exercise instead of desserts. 

But as quickly as it had descended, Ed’s grim expression transforms into a cheeky grin. “Oh, James,” he repeats, exasperated, “you’re incorrigible.”

His cheeks flame as he pries one of Ed’s ice cubes out of its spherical mold, and despite the compressor-chilled air seeping out from the freezer, they stay that way. James holds the glass, now full up with ice, up to his cheek. It feels cool against his face.

Ed seems to have moved on from James's little slip-up, and is now busying himself with making a green tea. “Do you want the first shower?”

“I’ll have it,” he answers. 

He starts the water out warm but turns it fractionally a bit at a time until it’s absolutely freezing; to cool his skin, sure, but mainly as a rebuke to himself for his lack of self-control. One last hot blast at the end to spare him the goosebumps when he gets out, which makes the mirror fog with steam. It runs and streaks as he dresses. A different jumper, one Ed likes the look of, those cords where he’d found the fruit leather earlier. He hangs his towel up to dry, opening the door to find Ed waiting, his own towel wrapped around his waist, which means he’s naked under there. James makes certain not to look at anything untoward and concentrates on his tattoos instead, like he's seeing them for the first time. 

“Took you long enough,” With a jokey thumb over his shoulder Ed indicates the direction of his room. “I’ve just had a wank!”

“Gross,” James says, already regretting that he’d permitted himself that bit of hot water. Goosebumps would be pretty welcome right about now.

The thing about Ed, is that he says outlandish things but pretty often they could be the truth. Had he rubbed one out just now? Was that his way of evening the score? 

He’s sat on the couch, socks on, shoes tied, watching the weather forecast with his hands tucked up beneath his thighs. He fantasizes about walking back into the kitchen, taking out the box of ice cream sandwiches. There’s time yet. After all, it takes Ed a full five minutes to put product in his hair.

Ed emerges, finally, rubbing his hands together, in a collared shirt and dark jeans that kind of look like trousers. His hair does look nice.

“You look nice,” James says, because it’s true.

“You too, mate,” Ed says, then notices the jumper he’s picked out and put on. James’s breath catches in his chest for the few seconds it takes for Ed to look him over and give him the tiniest, barest nod.

After that the guilt floats away to be replaced by warm relief, the glow of Ed’s approval. Excitement and anticipation of a lovely meal, good wine, desserts that — no offence to Ed’s skill with a butter knife — are going to leave his homegrown attempts in the dust.

“Do you need a hat?” Ed’s helping James shrug into his coat when he glances up and over at the top of his head. “I think you might.”

The forecast did say the temperature was dropping. Good to keep your head covered in the cold. And Ed would make them walk at some point, either to or from the restaurant. Not the whole way, but at least a mile of it. “Are we walking?”

Ed makes a show of taking James’s arm and looking at his watch, which is a silly thing to do when he’s wearing his own, which is bigger, as well as nicer, and says, “Maybe on the way back. Best get a move on now.”

“Right,” James answers, turning to leave. Yet no sooner have the words left his mouth than Ed’s caught him in his grip. He leans against James with all his solid weight and smooths down the arms of his coat, finally encircling his wrists with both his hands.

James freezes, fixed to where he’s stood.

“James,” he says, very close to his ear. 

Shit. _Shit._

Ed repeats his name, softer this time round. It forces James to pay attention. It’s not a good voice; not a voice that forebodes anything positive.

Shit.

“We’re going to have a nice dinner, yes?”

He closes his eyes without being fully conscious that he’s doing it. It’s not as if Ed’s saying anything untoward. It’s perfectly innocuous to point out what they’re on their way to do, isn’t it? Maybe nothing bad is about to happen.

“James?”

He blinks his eyes open again. The entryway blurs into focus. Ed's got him held firm, but if he wanted to, he could wriggle out of his grasp. He's done it in the past. Thing is, though? He doesn't want to. 

“Dinner?”

His voice sounds incredibly small, sheepish. “Dinner.”

That seems to satisfy Ed. He lets go of James’s wrists all at once, nuzzles against his neck. James deflates with relief. It can be confusing on occasion; Ed can be confusing. Sometimes James thinks he wants one thing, and it turns out he’s after another.

“Lovely,” he says, clearing his throat. “Let’s get your hat.”

It’s only when he’s passing it over from the basket where they keep such things, scarves, gloves, hats, that he remembers there was something else he’d wanted to tell James.

“Although, I was thinking, while I was in the shower —’

Oh no. Oh fucking no. They were past this, weren’t they? On their way to have a nice time, without Ed reminding James that he’d wrong-footed it earlier.

Oh God. He’s going to be sick. Ed holds out his hat to him, with a devious little smile on his stupid face. “I’m disappointed, is all, James.”

His heart jumps into his throat. He can't believe he's ruined their evening already but remains quiet on the subject. He knows he's misbehaved. Why draw any more attention?

“We’ll address it later," Ed tuts, "but it was naughty of you to ruin your appetite like that."

“I haven’t!" he nearly shouts. "Ruined anything, I mean!" 

Ed looks at him and says, in a flat, fond tone — like he can’t fathom how James can be the way that he is. “Mate.”

“But I haven’t,” James protests as Ed bundles him out the door.

And then he’s thinking about it; fixating on it. Gone is the excitement, the happy anticipation. His slip-up is at the front of his mind as they walk to the station, lingering to the extent that Ed has to remind him to get out his wallet when they reach the gates, after he tries to walk straight through them without paying first. He stares at the posters as they ride the escalator up, and when they’re back at street-level, stood side by side, Ed takes his hand.

His first instinct is to recoil — what if they’re spotted? What if someone notices? Ed gives him a reassuring squeeze and although James is dreading what’s going to happen later, he feels cared for. Safe. Whatever happens, Ed will take care of it.

“No one cares,” Ed says, almost under his breath, answering the unvoiced fears. “And besides, you owe me for earlier.”

His mouth turns into an inadvertent frown, “You said —” his voice wavers, because he was only starting to think he was back on solid ground, that maybe the meal would be uneventful and he could push it to the back of his mind, but no. “Later, that’s what you said.”

“Well,” Ed drops James’s hand to open the door for him. “I think it is later. Right now, as a matter of fact.”

James takes that pronouncement in as Ed announces his name to the hostess. She tells him their table isn’t quite ready but they’re welcome to wait at the bar. Ed insists they keep their coats with them. James would like to put his back on, really, burrow into it for the entirety of their meal and wear his hat besides, but he dutifully removes it and holds it in his lap once they’ve sat down.

Ed’s already studied the menu, so he doesn’t need long to discuss their order with the barman. One of the house special gin and tonics for Ed, please and thank you very much; a cocktail with Woodford, maple syrup, and strawberry jam for James.

“How is it?” Ed asks, after James has taken a sip. He shuts his eyes for focus, although even behind closed eyelids he can sense that Ed is scrutinizing him. It's like he's still wearing his coat, knowing that, a heavy, hot sensation that surrounds him. 

“It’s good,” he answers, blinking his eyes open. And it is. It tastes like a Kentucky campfire in springtime, flowering trees coming into blossom around a muddy racetrack.

Ed’s concentration never wavers, even when James tries to deflect the question back at him. “How’s yours?”

“Fine." He looks at James. James looks at his drink.

Ed puts the wine list down in between them, sidles onto the edge of his stool until his thigh is pressed against James’s own, and rests his hand there while he studies it.

James spends the next fifteen minutes trying his damndest not to hyperventilate. The cocktail takes the edge off, but he’s still buzzing when they’re told the table is ready at last.

“Fantastic,” Ed says, thanking the barman as they rise up from their stools and collect their coats, then trailing behind James, who is trailing behind their waitress, to their table. 

James puts his coat on the leather banquette beside him, then goes to wash his hands while Ed studies the menu some more. There’s a jug of still water on the table when he gets back, though most of it’s been decanted into two glasses.

A full-body shiver works its way up his arms and back. Ed squints at him but says nothing as he slides into his seat. The water’s arrived, thank God, and that can cover a multitude of sins.

Despite all his earlier preparations, Ed is entirely engrossed in the menu, so much so that he all but ignores the amuse-bouche that’s set down in the middle of the table. By now James actually might be on the verge of a hunger-induced breakdown, and even when he says Ed’s name, trying to get his attention, all he can see is the top of his head, intent on determining the best option.

James spreads his napkin in his lap, and when Ed remains unresponsive a second time, decides to cut into the little tartlet closest to him. He makes a proper mess of it, thin slices of radish impeding the progression of his fork, puff pastry crumbling into shards. There’s a bit of fresh dill on top which he flicks aside, and is lifting the messy bite up to his opened mouth when Ed finally clocks what’s happening.

“Good Lord,” he says, eyeing James reproachfully. Right to do it, as he’s mangled the pastry and managed to get some down his front. At least it blends in with his jumper.

Ed’s own fork darts in to stab at what's left. James watches as it travels from plate to mouth, the way he chews his food properly, taking the time to enjoy it. James picks up his water glass again to give himself something to do. Suddenly he’s awkward, panicked. Is it too late to back out, settle up for their cocktails, get a takeaway on the way home? Why do they have to be here, in public, when Ed’s giving him a look so intense you could sear a steak on it?

“Good?” he asks from his parched throat. Where’s their waitress? He needs another water; he’s going to need gallons of it if he’s going to make it through dinner.

“Really nice,” Ed says, once he’s taken it all in. “Beautiful pastry. Only you didn’t try it with the dill.”

James wrinkles his nose. “Nah,” he shakes his head. “Gets stuck in your teeth.”

Ed taps the side of the china plate with his fork. “Have the second one,” he says, and when James shakes his head _no_ says, again, “James. Have the second one.”

“Don’t you like it?” James asks, his fork already hovering over the plate. He could inhale about twenty more of these things and still have room for a cheeseburger.

“I liked it well enough,” Ed answers, “but seeing as how you’re the one who’s unable to control yourself—”

James can feel his neck heat from the accusation. There’s no point in denying it. James makes to stab at the pastry with his fork and fails yet again to get it on there. 

“Just pick it up," Ed sighs with exasperation. “And with the dill this time.”

James looks around the crowded room furtively. “We’re in a restaurant, Ed.”

“Fully aware of that." 

“We’re in _public_.”

“Yep, know that too.”

“Ed,” he says, almost in a whisper. “Ed I can’t possibly — ’

“Course you can,” he encourages from across the table. “It’ll be all right. I promise no one is looking at you.”

James hesitates. God he feels sick. 

Ed leers at him when he finally picks it up, his lips parting slightly as he watches James put it in his mouth. It makes him want to slide under the table and stay there until the restaurant is completely emptied of everyone, staff included. Blend in with the carpet, take up refuge in a lamp. 

“No one except you,” James mumbles through his mouthful. But Ed’s right, as he often is, he thinks sourly. The dill does add something, a bright herbal backnote that cuts through the buttery richness.

“Good?” Ed asks, leaving a long pause after he’s watched James swallow .

“Yes, Ed,” he says quietly as he fiddles with his fork.

“What was that?” Ed cups a hand to his ear like he isn’t sat two feet away, the prick. 

There must have been some wasabi in that little blob of mayonnaise decorating the top. His face is absolutely burning. His tongue feels fine, but he reaches for the water glass anyways.

“It’s good,” James says to Ed’s handsome leer. “It’s delicious.”

The waitress returns. Do they need more water already? She’s happy to refill that jug. 

“We’re ready to order,” Ed tells her pleasantly. “We will be needing more, but let’s take care of this first. Someone," he arches an eyebrow at James, who looks down at his fingers, then into his lap, "hasn’t had enough to eat today.”

James hasn’t had a proper look at the menu yet, and now he’s too flustered to contemplate making a single decision, let alone with this woman hovering expectantly over him. But really, it hardly matters. Ed has planned enough for both of them. 

Ed asks James outright if he wants another cocktail. Is he ready to move onto the wine? His head is woozy: from hunger, good bourbon, sweet maple syrup. He hesitates long enough that Ed makes the decision for him. 

“Wine it is,” he announces, after James provides no answer. She leans over his shoulder, tucking a strand of long blonde hair behind her ear in a way that James can clearly identify as flirtatious. They talk quietly, Ed glancing over at James every couple of seconds to gauge his reactions. She points down at the wine list that Ed is holding, her chest alarmingly close to his face. James drops his hands into his lap so he can ball them up without making Ed glare at him. She suggests a South African sparkling, available by the bottle. That might be a bit much for Ed, with his digestion. And for James, who will just get sleepy.

But he could get himself drunk. He’s an adult, he can do what he likes. Get a bottle, order another cocktail, pick the damn thing out himself. Ignore the bread basket that’s even now being set down between them — _small-batch sourdough and an oaten treacle bread_, the runner says, _salted Ampersand Dairy butter_, God it smells amazing — and get absolutely hammered.

Ed thanks the runner while looking at James. “Go on,” he says, as if finally twigging that he’s ravenous. “I’ll look after it.”

“If you’re sure,” James answers, one hot hand already closed round the butter knife.

The waitress leans back over, tucks her hair that same stupid way again, James notices, his mouth full of warm sourdough. Who could blame her, though? Ed is handsome. He rips off another large chunk with his front teeth.

“Good,” Ed says to him. He blinks slowly in James's direction before saying to her, “He’ll have the duck to start, and the Swartland Smiley Chenin, the small pour. I’m going to do the set menu, so I’ll be having the wine pairing —’

*

The meal lasts for ages, and gradually James’s ravenous hunger abates enough for him to slow down enough to enjoy it.

Plates keep on coming. Ed’s brought twice as many dishes but reassures him it will all even out in the end. His portions are smaller though the plates are the same size, and he insists, too, on giving James a bite of each, along with the extra bread Ed had requested.

There are a few missteps but the plating is clever, the service excellent if maybe a bit on the attentive side. Their waitress is obviously into Ed, and he's playing it up, has been giving James dirty grins all night, and his way of dealing with that is to stab his fork angrily into whatever's on his plate at the time, and should he find nothing there, he'll look anxiously about the room. See what tables have turned over, what dishes the waiters are carrying out, to look anywhere but in Ed's direction. 

James has kind of demolished his fried plaice, one lone chip hanging out on the side of the plate. He’s actually proper full. It came over him all of a sudden.

“Finish your chips,” Ed leans against the banquette, resting his arm along the back of it. His other hand is poised above his wine glass; he taps a finger to the rim, smirks. “And then you should pick out your pudding.”

Wow. No, by now he’s had more than enough. There’s a banana custard still to come, and Ed will only have a bite or two. He’s got ice cream aplenty in the freezer, and that’s already been paid for. You could probably go on a mini-break somewhere for what this dinner is costing. 

But also, in a small way, James wants Ed to notice his restraint. It was one thing when it came to the savoury dishes, but for James to deny himself a dessert? Had to count for something. 

He shakes his head. It’s the right thing to do. There will be other puddings. Other dinner dates to come.

“I’m all right, actually. Besides, you’re getting that custard. I’ll have some of that.”

Nevertheless their waitress scuttles over at Ed’s signal in order to provide them with the dessert menu. After-dinner drinks are listed on the back. He glances over it quickly, passes it across the table.

“James,” he says, kindly, “have a look at least. For me?”

James takes it and reluctantly scans the list. Now, to be honest for a second? There isn’t a pudding on there he wouldn’t give his little toe to try. Ed must know, mustn't he, how excruciating it is to deny himself. But he’s been good all day, save for that minor hiccough. He can still salvage this with the right kind of contrition.

“It all looks delicious,” he admits, wishing in a way that he’d only ordered soup for his main and three or four things for afters. But then that wouldn’t be fair to Ed, he reasons, since he’s the one who loves sweets. Reluctantly he places the menu face-down on the table, the descriptions running through his mind. Delicious things — caramelised white chocolate, salted coffee caramel, _peanut butter_. 

“Honestly, Ed. I don’t need anything.” He folds his arms in front of his chest. 

Ed isn't buying his refusal. “Mate,” he says, as their waitress comes back to hover expectantly by him, now she sees he’s taken possession of the menu. “You mean to tell me there’s nothing you fancy?”

“Um,” he stammers, cheeks heating. “Um.”

He looks up and over at their waitress, yet somehow contrives to keep an eye on James in a way that makes him want to squirm against the banquette. He holds still, though, holds still and holds his breath as Ed says to her, casual as anything, “Big fan of peanut butter, this one.” A pause in which he wonders if it’s possible to asphyxiate while breathing. Ed takes the menu away from him and flips it back and forth. “Is the Paris-Brest good?”

She moves away from James to be closer to Ed, placing her fingertips on the table. Next thing you know she’ll be joining them for a drink, the prick. Suddenly he can think of nothing that he wants more than for this person to get the fuck away from Ed, and how none of this would be happening if they were to just leave straightaway.

“Tell you what,” Ed says, after he’s given it a moment’s thought, “let’s do the soufflé for him.”

She scurries off like a little mouse before returning a few moments later with Ed’s things, his top-shelf cognac and the long-awaited banana custard, with honeycomb and pistachio. It isn’t much to look at, smells of nothing, yet his own mouth is wet with anticipation.

“Looks good,” he says, fully expecting Ed to hand it over after one, maybe two, bites like he usually does.

Ed’s spoon stays right where it was right at the beginning of the meal. He even pulls the plate closer to him so James couldn't reach it even if he'd tried. 

The waitress returns with apologies; it will be a short wait on the soufflé, if they’re all right with that? Unless they'd prefer something else? 

“Fine,” Ed tells her, “it’s no bother.”

She suggests another cognac but he’s ready by now for his after-dinner espresso, thank you very much.

“Don’t you want to eat that?” James says as if he’s concerned with Ed’s continued disinterest in the custard rather than angling to get it passed his way as quick as possible.

Ed stirs his coffee with its tiny spoon though he hasn’t even put any sugar in. There’s a little square of dark chocolate on the saucer that James also thinks — hopes — might be forthcoming.

“No,” he says, absolutely unflappable, and pops the chocolate into his mouth. From across the table, James makes a strangled noise.

The custard sits there, the bastard, and Ed sits there, the bastard, and out the two of them, Ed’s the smug one. The custard? Just looks delicious. And James? Practically pitching a fit right here in his seat.

“God." Ed licks his lips. "You’re really gagging for it, aren’t you?” His tone is light but it still comes out strained. It makes James's scalp go all tight. 

James’s mouth falls open but before he can speak — before he can force himself to say something fucking coherent — their bloody waitress is back on them, apologising yet again, and why the fuck won't she just _go away_ already?. In answer to Ed’s question, yes, she can bring them over the tea selection, and in answer to Ed’s flirty wink, yes, she could probably put a chocolate on that saucer as well.

She brings James a little wooden box to rifle through. There’s a green tea without caffeine, but he’s been burned by that promise before and settles on peppermint. Better for the nerves, besides.

They sit there for what seems like a long, long time. They're both sated and the conversation stills. Ed goes off to the toilets. James fiddles with the hem of his jumper, soothed by the nubbly texture between his fingers. He darts glances at the custard, imagining how it will taste. 

They wait so long for the soufflé that when it’s brought out, finally, she says she’ll take it off the bill.

Ed gets them to bring James some more hot water, which, he says with a wry twist of his mouth, is the least they can do for a fiver, and not even loose leaf, at that. That stupidly familiar anxious rush cascades through James — things weren’t perfect, weren’t to Ed’s exact liking, and it’s instinctual for him to try and make that his responsibility somehow, like maybe he’ll be able to fix it, rewind time, start the whole day over — and Ed, noticing that he’s going off in his head, that he’s taking the teabag out of the water, putting it back in the water, interrupts his habitual thoughts.

"Here's your dessert, then." 

And there it is, put down with a flourish and looking like heaven on a plate. There are components, three little dishes: a bowl, a pitcher, a ramekin. 

James picks up his spoon hesitantly, turning it until its base rests upon the table. The waistband of his cords is, implausibly, chafing against the skin of his stomach. He shifts his free forearm against it to quell the itch. 

Ed’s got two high pink spots on his cheeks. His eyes are glassy, though his hair is perfect as ever. “Go on,” he says finally, and nods at the spoon James has clutched tight in his hand.

James bends over his dessert and uses the backside of the spoon to open a seam down the middle of the blackberry soufflé, into which he pours a little — not all, Ed suggests, and he nods down at the plate to show he understands — of the lemon-thyme custard, and then scoops out some — maybe a third, Ed says, so it doesn’t get all melty all at once, of the baked cheesecake ice cream — and James doesn’t even notice that he’s gripping the edge of the table with his free hand until Ed says, his voice all scratchy, “Hop to it. Before it deflates.”

“Do you want some?” James mumbles.

“Sorry?” Ed cups a hand to his ear. “Can't hear you.”

James clears his throat, makes sure he’s loud enough to hear over the blood slamming against his temples, “Did you — w-want some of this?”

“I do,” Ed says in this way that makes him wonder where the seating’s disappeared off to since he appears to be floating in mid-air, that’s how light his legs have gone. He clears his throat again, “but you first. I insist.”

James steadies his hand as the spoon travels from the plate up to his lips, and into his mouth.

It's texture, and taste, and sensation, and flavour, and the cold of the ice cream and the warmth of the soufflé, the metallic tang of the spoon against his tongue, the heat of Ed's gaze upon him. 

“Good?” Ed blinks at him, his eyelids slow and heavy. The wine must be getting to him. That must be what’s happening. He looks relaxed and keyed up all at once. 

“Good.” His throat itches the second he’s swallowed the cold ice cream. He wants to make the sensation go away and so spoons up some more; Ed looks down at his throat as he swallows. From across the table, Ed make a small, pained noise. James feels inordinately, uncharacteristically powerful. Look at what he's done. And to Ed, of all people. 

“How?” Ed asks, and then picks up his espresso cup like he might find a bit left, if only to have something to do with his hands. It makes James dizzy to think about too much, so he spoons up another mouthful in order to stop thinking. 

James lets it melt onto his tongue. “Summer,” he says after a pause to think, “like, blackberry, eating blackberry jam before it's fully set, and this wonderful lemoniness, but there's this wild taste, too, that must be the thyme.”

Ed’s nodding enthusiastically now, his eyes back to being wide and trained entirely on James, “and the ice cream,” he prods it with his spoon, scoops up a soft curl and holds it out across the table.

“Try it,” he says, and passes it over. "It tastes like that one we had at Junior's." 

He uses that opportunity to eat up his own little square of chocolate, and when Ed hands the spoon back their fingers touch. James says, the roof of his mouth hot and sticky, “'S good, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ed agrees. He looks absolutely gone. "Really bloody good. Finish that up and then you can have the other?”

“Okay," James tucks back in, his head bowed in concentration, shoulders stooped as he digs in with his spoon.

The banana custard is good though it still doesn’t touch the Reading Terminal Market one, and he finds he likes the honeycomb but could leave out the pistachios — too waxy, undersalted — but eats it all up, and when no one is looking, swipes his finger around the dish to make sure he hasn't missed anything, and sticks it in his mouth to suck clean. 

*

“Did you have a nice time?” Ed asks for what must be the tenth time since they’d left. 

James answers, as he has whenever Ed has asked this exact question, “Yes, Ed. Very much so.”

“Me too,” Ed says, and then he reaches over James to toss his hat lightly into the basket atop all the others. When his shoulder grazes James’s own, he wobbles on his feet. 

“I’m glad,” Ed says. His mouth looks so soft. It's a good mouth. James really hopes they kiss soon. “When you have a nice time, I do, too.”

“Why?” he asks because honestly, why?

Ed crowds James up against their hallway table. It digs into the backs of his legs. “Why? Do I need a reason?”

He’d known this was coming and yet it still takes him by surprise. Maybe Ed would leave it. Maybe the implicit threat from earlier was all in his head. It was only a little mistake, honestly. A victimless crime — not even a full-fledged crime, maybe a misdemeanor at worst — and the only person who’d come out looking bad was himself, James Acaster. It didn’t reflect badly on Ed at all. He had been pretty good, hadn't he? Despite the puddings? 

James breathes out a _no_, Ed’s face alarmingly close to his own. The way Ed’s looking at him he wouldn’t even be able to lie. “Don’t need one.”

“Goddamn right I don’t,” Ed says, and kisses him. His hand closes around James’s wrist, and he squeezes, hard enough that James can feel his own bones crunch together from the inside, which doesn’t make any sense. It kinda hurts, but in a way that isn’t painful. Ed isn’t keen on pain, which is fine for James because he doesn’t think he’d be too keen either.

The wrist squeeze does two things. It reminds him to be there, in his body, feeling the things that are about to happen, and it reminds him, more than that, that Ed is going to be making them happen.

It excites him to know that. He’s known it since earlier that afternoon, the inevitability of it hanging over his head like a loose electrical wire, buzzing, about to crash to the pavement at any moment.

Ed keeps James close by tugging on the front of his coat, and James bristles at first but then Ed’s kissing the daylights out of him, removing first his outerwear, which he sensibly hangs up, and then his jumper, which makes it onto the back of a dining chair, which, fair enough, followed by his button-down (floor) and t-shirt (coffee table), at which point James is pushed back onto the sofa. When he notices that the lights are still on, he flinches, shields his eyes with his upper arm. 

“Can’t we turn those off?”

Ed, too busy with his belt buckle, focussed only on getting James’s trousers open, says nothing in return.

James puts his hands in between his legs to make him stop. “Ed.”

Ed’s eyes narrow like he’s mulling it over. James knows he probably doesn’t deserve the darkness. “Alexa,” he says, decisively, “switch on the front room lamp.”

It’s right by James, it would take less time for him to do it himself, but Ed seems to enjoy having her do what he tells her to. A moment later, he asks for the overhead lights to be switched off. With the dimness James instantly feels better, relieved almost, until Ed returns to his previous position, and his hands, too, to their previous position.

James’s reaction to Ed’s mouth on him used to consist of closing his eyes, groaning, his guilt-fed brain telling him to get it over with as quick as possible, his nerve endings protesting that he could handle it for just a bit longer, couldn’t he? And would it do any harm to look? Ed always seems like he’s enjoying it, and he makes it look sexy, even though it’s absolutely ridiculous, if you think about it too much.

But he does look nice. His lips are nice, soft and big, and the inside of his mouth is really nice, warm and wet, and when he glances up and sees that James is watching, which makes James squirm, he does something very nice indeed with his hands and the flat point of his tongue. 

He slams his eyes shut and tries to forget what he just saw. 

“Ed,” he chokes out, and when he can’t find Ed’s head from groping in the blind dark, opens them once more. 

“James,” Ed says, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips are all puffy. “I wasn’t finished with that.”

“But,” he flaps a hand in the direction of the bedroom. “If you want to — ?”

Ed tilts his head to the side. “No,” he says, and draws it out, the absolute bastard, “no I don’t think I do want.”

His arms tense up. Can he sink into the spot where the sofa cushions meet? Can he fold in upon himself like an origami crane? His voice comes out as a reedy whine. “Ed,” he says. “Can we just? Bedroom?" 

Ed places his hands either side of James’s naked waist, barely touching him, yet he stills at once. He leaves one there and grips him with the other. It calms him, weirdly, enough for him to lean his head back against the cushions and let Ed take care of it. “We’ll go through to the bedroom when I'm good and ready.”

He lasts an embarrassingly short time. Then they go through, to the bedroom.

Sex he can only just manage to enjoy when Ed’s body is pressed up close against his own, his solid weight pinning him to the mattress. He likes it when it’s only his skin against Ed's smooth skin, quiet noises and sweaty friction, and Ed doesn’t fucking _talk_ during it.

But James has been naughty today. If he'd been good then Ed would have dealt with him the way he usually does: quickly, in the dark. This is on James. If he hadn’t been such a greedy little shit then Ed would have let him off easy.

James shivers. 

He absolutely hates this. Hates the way he likes it, hates the fact that it’s time wasted, that Ed gets him off more than once, which is horrifically self-indulgent, and most of all, that Ed won’t let him have the lights out. 

It’s all James’s fault that Ed is now knelt behind him on the hard floor, his strong hands splayed across the soles of his bare feet, doing God knows what with his tongue. James only knows it feels too intimate for any person to do to another. Certainly he’s never considered doing it in return. He wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“You’re all right,” Ed breathes from behind. James can hear him, now, hear the sounds his shirt buttons make, his belt, the zip of his trousers. Ed touches his backside, delicately, with his fingertips and James nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Worked up?” he asks lightly. He’s breathing heavily, too, and James can just sense that he’s holding himself with one hand, not quite still but not stroking with any purpose either. It's right there, so close. Fuck. He wants it, wants it though hot shame floods his body, wants Ed to have his way with him and absolve him of the guilt.

James snorts. “Hardly,” he says, but there’s no real fire in it. He shouldn’t have wanted it the first time, but he _really_ shouldn’t want it now. Yet even the thought sends a shudder up his spine. He wishes Ed would get on with it, hurry up, get it over with. 

And Ed? Ed is fucking awful. Ed is drawing it out, tickling James with the tips of his fingers before sliding in, slow and hot and thick, bare skin on bare skin, and it fucking hurts, not as bad as it does sometimes, when James is wound more tightly and Ed hasn’t been allowed to take his time. James can only wish that at some point it’s going to stop feeling this good.

Ed’s hand finds his shoulder and he rubs his head against it, trying to get Ed to touch him there. His other hand is on James’s front, right where his stomach meets his hip, and that feels intimate, too, in a way that Ed driving into him doesn’t, so much.

“James,” Ed says after what might have been minutes, might have been hours. His voice is hoarse and the sound makes his scalp prickle. “James, turn over.”

James pushes himself up from his forearms, placing his hands flat atop the mattress. He pants over his shoulder, gathering his courage. “Can’t you — like this?”

“I can.” Ed answers the question by flipping James onto his back, giving him his own legs to hold, his bony knees right up in his sightline, making him flinch, “but you know,” and he pauses to look, which James wants to do, too, but he won’t let himself in case it overwhelms him, and because he can't, he shouldn't, he _mustn't_, “But you know? Don’t feel like it.”

James tries to forget it’s happening, to let the feeling wash over him without thinking too hard about where it originates, but Ed has other ideas. The fucker, the bastard. The arsehole, the prick. He gets a hand on the back of James’s neck and gives it a forceful yank. 

He lets himself be pulled up, his head the last thing to go, looking anywhere but right at Ed. His shoulder, the ceiling, over at the door, though they’re the only people who live here. 

Ed threads his other hand through his hair until it meets the other one, tugs again, harder, until he’s unable to look at the ceiling, the door, Ed’s shoulder. His stomach tightens. Oh no. No. 

“Kiss me,” Ed demands. James hesitates — it’s icky, his mouth was just somewhere else — but relents without all that much protest. He’s wound too tight to fight back. The movement pushes Ed against him and he shudders, from his toes to up to his shoulders.

“You like this,” he says, like it's a fact he's merely reporting on. His tone brooks no argument. 

No, James thinks, but it’s just his snap reaction. No he doesn’t like it.

Ed grinds into him. It makes him leak against his tummy, and it hurts, still, where Ed’s inside him and where he’s hard, and he’s trying to get to grips with that, these different things that don’t feel good but feel really, really good, when Ed chuckles right up in his face. “Sorry, James. But it’s true. You like — no, you love my dick.”

“Shut up,” James says, but Ed does this so well, he makes James feel like he’s never done anything wrong in his entire life, like all that matters is eating what Ed picks out for him and letting him watch; the only meaningful thing he’s ever stumbled into is this, whatever this ambiguous dynamic might be, it strikes him as being right.

Maybe that was why nothing had worked out before. It simply didn’t fit.

Ed rocks his body into James, and James can’t bring himself to look away, and that makes Ed growl through his teeth, lift both of James's feet until they're resting against his sternum. He leans over, panting, now, in ragged long breaths that make James want to suck on his tongue, eat the sound out of his very mouth.

“I love watching you get fucked." Ed grips onto James's ankles. He speeds up his tempo as James squirms against the mattress, cursing Ed under his breath all the while. “Wish you’d let me do it more often.”

Ed’s thick legs press up against his skinny ones. Suddenly without warning he’s choking on Ed’s tongue, trying to get out the words to say slow down, slow down, let me enjoy this, but the words get twisted in his throat. Ed’s lips are on his neck, his nails digging into the backs of his thighs.

James sticks his fingers in his mouth, sees Ed’s swollen lips part as he does it, this excited, hazy look come over his face, and that's too much to bear thinking about. Instead he closes his mouth around his first two fingers, gets them good and wet until they slide out of their own accord.

“‘M a good boy." It just slips out, out of nowhere. It feels like a lie as well. James can be good, but he can't ever be as good as he wishes he were. In that respect, like so many, he's always falling short. 

“Christ,” Ed grabs James by the shoulders, slows down, the fucking tease, and says, "say it again."

James takes a shaky breath and moves his arms until they're stretched out against his bare thighs. 

"Good," James says, hot and suddenly self-conscious. "I'm good." 

His hands are grasping for the duvet, occasionally bumping against his skin, his naked, naked skin.

"That's right," Ed gasps, "you're so good, James. Such a good boy for me." He grabs a fistful of James's hair and uses it to pull him to the side, until he can sink his teeth into James’s neck while he sinks his dick deeper into James.

“That's my good boy.” Ed bites him on his neck, in a way that’s going to mean he’ll have to wear the stupid polo neck jumper come the morning, and even that thought doesn’t phase him.

“Ed,” he manages, and it’s a plea.

“Okay,” Ed says, and touches him until his back bows.

“Ed,” he says, and it’s fucking broken even as it leaves his lips.

“Okay,” Ed says, and that’s what he’s been waiting for, “okay, okay, do it, James, okay?”

“Fuck.” James throws his head back, finds Ed’s butt with his hands, and Ed growls when James does that, and he says it right back to James, “Fuck,” he breathes, and James closes his eyes and touches Ed there right when Ed’s hand is on him tight and relentless, his dick inside him, tight and relentless, and Ed says it again, “Fuck, James,” and James answers, “yeah, Ed, yeah, yeah.”

*

"Is it weird?" James asks. His leg is slung atop both of Ed's, the sheets tangled but neither of them with the werewithal to do much about it. 

Ed gaves him a sympathetic look. "Sure it's weird. But in the grand scheme of things?" 

"Not that weird," James agrees. 

Ed rolls James onto his back, puts a hand right across his tummy, and says, "Lucky for you, James Acaster, I happen to be very fond of weird." 

James's eyelid twitches. His bum hurts, his very teeth hurt. His head feels like all the hair's been singed off with a pair of overheated tongs. 

"Good," he mumbles, eyes closing against the compliment. "Knew there was a reason I liked you." 

**Author's Note:**

> Do check out the [Kerridge's menus](https://www.kerridgesbarandgrill.co.uk/menus/) and plot out your own fantasy meal there.


End file.
